Crypt of the Moaning Diamond (13 page)

“Ivy, we found something!” Zuzzara’s bellow echoed through the long, narrow tunnel. An open doorway was carved into the wall. To enter the dark room beyond, they had to step up over a broad stone threshold. From the other side, the Siegebreakers could see the lintel of the door was carved with a procession of men and horses, dragging wagons full of jars behind them. The flare of Zuzzara’s torch and the light of Mumchance’s lantern revealed a long, narrow room with niches carved into the walls, filling the space from floor to ceiling. Neatly piled bones, three or four skulls resting on the top of each pile, occupied each niche.

“Funeral procession,” said Mumchance, glancing up at the carving on the lintel. The carved parade continued across the ceiling, and small flecks of old paint brightened the ribbons carved around the spokes of the cartwheels and in the horses’ manes.

“We are in an ossuary,” said Sanval. “We have these in Procampur too. The dead are taken below the stteets once their bodies are burned.”

“That is what I love about being underground,” said Ivy, “the wonderful things that you get to see, like other peoples graveyards.”

“Look at all the names on the wall,” said Gunderal, going from niche to niche. “I can read them; this writing is not that old. There are whole families in some of these niches: mother, father, children.”

“Not here,” said Zuzzara, pausing before another niche. This one had a smaller pile of bones than the others, and only one skull rested on top. The skull looked a little lonely, Ivy thought. Gunderal leaned against her sister’s shoulder and recited the epitaph inscribed upon the wall, her voice growing softer and sadder with each line.

“As for the name of this warrior, I do not know it, Nor do I know from what place he came. But he rode to our walls,

With his banner displayed and flying in the wind. At his boasting, the defenders drew their blades. We could not resist from beginning the battle. Four fellows caught him and beat upon him, Each stroke like a hammer upon an anvil. His armor split to reveal the treasure beneath. The wizards stole his gem, as they steal all. When he died, the ground was hard with hoar-frost. So we burned his body to keep him warm, And stored his bones among our dead. But his name we never learned, And his family mourns unknowing.”

When Gunderal finished, even Zuzzara gave a little sniff and knuckled her eyes. Mumchance cleared his throat and rubbed Wiggles’s ears. The little dog licked his hand.

Ivy just shrugged. She would not let such a memorial affect her. “So died a mercenary. Unknown, unnamed,” she said.

Sanval gave her a peculiar look, almost sympathetic. Ivy ignored him. “I wonder what his treasure was.”

“Probably meant that they cut out his heart,” said Mumchance.

“I do not think it was his heart,” said Gunderal. “Wizards would not have much use for that.” She brushed an errant curl back behind her ear, tilting her head to one side in puzzlement. “There’s something else here. Some runes below the bones, like the ones back in the mosaic. See that one”—she tapped the symbol with one shell pink nail—”is almost the same as the one written near the big jewel carried by that wizard toppling towers in the picture.”

Distracted by a clattering sound, Ivy whipped around to see Kid poking through another pile of bones. She snapped an order at him. “Get away from that!”

Kid just gave her one of his pointed smiles and said, “No magic here, my dear. No spells. Just dead, cold dead, in their little pots and niches.” He trotted back to where they stood. He leaned very close to the wall to study the peculiar runes pointed out by Gunderal. “Beautiful Gunderal is right. These are the same as the ones written in the mosaic. Jewels—these marks may mean jewels. And there are footprints below the niche that are the five that we tracked before. Looking for something, but finding nothing, I think.” Something about the lone pile of bones discovered by the sisters intrigued him. Kid stuck his long, black-nailed fingers into the pile of bones before them, shifting the skull out of his way as he felt around the niche.

“I swear if you stir up another pathetic skeleton to attack us, I’m leaving you behind,” exclaimed Ivy.

“Do skeletons attack him often?” asked Sanval, remembering the lurching collection of bones in the hall of ash.

“With depressing regularity,” Ivy replied. “Skeletons, animated corpses, crawling hands of the undead. There’s something about him. Like honey to bears. Get away from those bones! We don’t have time, and there is nothing there for you to steal!” Ivy suddenly could not bear to see the lonely mercenary disturbed again. Eventually, everyone should be allowed some peace and rest. She reached out and smacked Kid not too gently across his bottom.

“I go, I go,” bleated Kid in mock terror, skipping out of her reach. “See how swift I run. Can you catch me, my dears?”

Rounding a corner at a quick trot, Kid almost smashed his nose on the stone wall that blocked the tunnel ahead. Ivy swore. They had reached a dead end.

“Just need to find the handle,” said Mumchance, running his hands over the smooth marble wall. “It must open. They did not walk through solid stone.”

Gunderal nodded and passed her hands over the wall as well, making ladylike sniffs, as she tried to divine what type of lock might hold the door closed.

“So who do you think is down here?” Sanval asked Ivy as the pair in front of them tried to open the secret door.

“Treasure hunters, most likely, and not from Procampur’s side of the wall,” Ivy admitted with as much candor as she could spare. She was not going to mention her worries about possible stray troops from Fottergrim’s horde. That would be enough to send Sanval dashing off in the darkness to save the day and probably get himself killed. “You have camels but no bugbears among your mercenaries. It could be deserters, which would be an encouraging sign, but you would think that they would be carrying more gear with them.”

“Why are deserters a good sign?”

“Now you want to chat? When we are in a hole in the ground with no clear way out?”

“Do you have something else to do? Just now?” And the man even made his comments sound reasonable, much to Ivy’s disgust.

Mumchance muttered something about missing his good pick and gestured Zuzzara to come forward. He took her shovel and tried to wedge the blade under the secret door. Ivy and Sanval moved farther back down the tunnel to give them room to work.

“Why are deserters a good sign?” When Sanval wanted to talk, he evidently wanted to talk.

“Because you don’t desert if you think you’re going to win. You leave when the food starts running low, or the water runs out, or the guy in charge turns out to be a raving lunatic with delusions of immortality and world conquest. Which happens far more frequently than you would think sensible. Look at Fottergrim.”

“World conquest?”

“Well, no, not since the Black Horde was destroyed. But why be such an idiot ore and seize a city? Especially such a city with such a history of bad luck. No one has ever managed to hold onto Tsurlagol. Wandering here and there in the hills, he could survive. Raid a town for a day, carry away the chickens and children, that I can understand.” Sanval gave her one of those straight down the nose looks that were a specialty of his. “Not approve, mind you, but understand.”

“About the chickens?” His tone was exceptionally dry.

“And the children. An ore has to eat, and he has to have somebody to wash out his laundry. A moving horde like Fottergrim’s needs slaves to do all the tasks that fighters think are so far beneath them.”

“Laundry.”

“Cooking, digging latrines, washing socks. Even if you only change your socks once a year, it is nice to have a clean, dry pair.”

“So why not take a city and enslave its citizens?”

“Because it is too big. Somebody is sure to object, like Procampur, and knock the walls down and take it back. It is strange. Fottergrim has been unusually clever for an ore these past ten years. It is almost as if someone talked him into taking the city. Or he was seized by divine madness. And I will bet you my nonexistent lunch and unlikely dinner, he is up on the walls right now, regretting that he ever invaded Tsurlagol.”

“So you think we can win the siege,” persisted Sanval.

“Certainly hope so,” replied Ivy, trying for a nonchalant tone to impress him. “Because we don’t get paid unless Procampur wins. So I would like to bring a wall down before I leave for better places. And nothing is getting done by standing here!”

The last was pitched much louder and Mumchance responded with, “We’re trying, Ivy.” The dwarf dropped to his hands and knees, sniffing along the floor like a hunting hound, obviously trying to scent some stray draft blowing under the door that might reveal an opening. Wiggles ran around him, occasionally giving the dwarPs red nose a big lick. “Get away, sweetheart,” muttered Mumchance at the dog. “Let me do my work.”

“Perhaps Enguerrand can succeed without your help,” suggested Sanval. He probably meant his words as a kindness, but that statement pricked Ivy’s pride.

“Give me pike dwarfs and gnome archers, and I can topple any cavalry charge,” said Ivy. “And Fottergrim has much more than that.”

“Pikes and arrows would not work against such trained cavalry as Enguerrand leads,” stated Sanval with calm conviction.

“Does. Did. That’s how I met Mumchance,” said Ivy. Sanval cocked an eyebrow.

“In the mud, pinned under a horse, having been on the wrong end of the charge,” explained Ivy. “Terrible day, rain pouring down, fresh plowed field all gone to muck. But there were these dwarves and gnomes. Just standing there. Waiting for us. They looked so very short from where we were sitting on top of our great big chargers. So the trumpets sound, the drums beat, and we go racing up hill in full armor in the stupidest charge in the history of horse-mounted warfare. I was one of the lucky ones. The arrows got my horse, and it rolled over on me. That horse’s death saved me from being spit on the pikes. Also I fell face up, rather than face down, so I didn’t drown in the mud.”

“How old were you?” said Sanval.

“Fifteen and foolish at that age, like all young humans,” said Mumchance standing up and brushing off his knees. He hooked his little hammer out of his belt and began tapping on the door, pressing one ear against the stone to listen for echoes. With a roll of his good eye toward Ivy, he added, “But she was politer than most.”

“Keep working,” said Ivy. “You don’t have time to gossip.” To Sanval, she said, “My mother taught me court courtesy.”

“Really?” said Sanval, clearly remembering the song about the red-roof girls and a few other comments.

“Oh, I can speak like a lady when I need to,” said Ivy with a blush. She remembered the song too. It lacked elegance. Any Procampur court lady would swoon at the first verse alone, and it was probably just as well that she’d stopped before she’d gotten to the last lyric, because that might have caused a few of the more squeamish Procampur gentlemen to faint too. That boy in the Forty had been extremely pink in the face when she had passed him in front of the Thultyrl’s tent. “And my father was a druid who taught me how to keep my mouth shut. The elves used to call him the Silent Walker. For example, he would

never interrupt a good story halfway through. It was one of the things my mother liked best about him whenever his silence wasn’t driving her crazy.”

Sanval did not say anything.

“My manners saved my life,” Ivy continued. “There I was, pinned under a dead horse, with this dwarf sitting on top and asking me what I thought I was doing there. I told him the truth. I absolutely didn’t know why I was fighting that war, but I would appreciate a little help.”

“So I dug her out and dried her off”. By then the girls’ father had disappeared, and their mothers were gone, and I thought I could use a little extra help at the farm.” Mumchance pushed Zuzzara’s shovel’s edge against the bottom of the stone door. Scraping sounds, the high-pitched kind that made the back of Ivy’s teeth hurt, filled the tunnel and caused the others to retreat a few steps. With a grunt, Mumchance pulled the shovel out from under the door and returned it to Zuzzara. “Well, that didn’t work. Gunderal, any luck?”

Gunderal muttered something that sounded terribly close to a swear word. Zuzzara looked slightly shocked; Zuzzara’s mother had never let her use language like that! But, being a water genasi, Gunderal’s mother had possessed a very salty tongue when she was angry. Gunderal’s vocabulary was far less delicate than her looks.

“There is a lock, a magical lock,” muttered Gunderal. “I am sure of it. But it is on the other side of the door, and I can’t tell you anything more.”

“It was the most miserable little war. Neither of us could see any reason to stay,” Ivy continued talking to Sanval. She never had any luck with magic doors. If Gunderal and Mumchance could not open it, they would have to go back. She kept chattering to distract herself from screaming in frustration. “So we deserted, Mumchance and I. It was the sensible thing to do.”

“And this war?” asked Sanval with more than polite curiosity.

“Oh, as miserable as the rest,” said Mumchance, still staring at the door. The dwarf frowned, the lines crossing his forehead deepening, and the scars across his face more pronounced than ever. With the iron clad toe of his boot, he softly kicked the obstacle facing him—a straight line across the bottom of the door, clang, clang, clang—but nothing rattled or echoed in the stone door. “But war pays our bills. That is why mercenaries fight, boy. For the money. Not honor, not glory, not history. For loot. Well, except for the odd bad one….”

“The ones that fight because they like it,” said Ivy. “And before you ask, we are the good kind of mercenary. The ones who care most for gold.”

Sanval did not look reassured.

“So why do you fight?” she asked.

“Because I am a noble of Procampur, pledged to the service of the Thultyrl. And he is a good king, the wisest we have had for some time. But even if he were the worst of tyrants, I would still answer his call. My family has always served the Thultyrl.”

“What sort of family do you have?”